


My Sin, My Soul

by velvetcadence



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Bad Touch, Charles Is a Darling, Creepy Uncle Erik, Dark, Despoilment, Dubious Consent, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Erik has Issues, Jailbait Charles, Lawyer Erik, Lolita AU, M/M, POV First Person, Smitten Erik, Uncle/Nephew Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 20:18:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/996137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetcadence/pseuds/velvetcadence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles has to live with his mother’s brother while his parents are on vacation. </p><p>"Lithe, nubile, hair curling at his nape and over his brow: he was Charlie in the morning, rubbing his eyes, his pajama top loose enough to expose a freckled shoulder. Chuck at the playground, trying to hang out with the “cool kids”. Chad in school, glasses perched over the twinkle of his eyes. Charles in my arms, always Charles, a purr giving way to a quiet hiss as he lets me touch the tender flesh of his sex."</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Sin, My Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Грех мой, душа моя/My Sin, My Soul](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7042222) by [Deiko (Gellert)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gellert/pseuds/Deiko)



> Prompt over [ here](http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/9701.html?thread=21301989#t21301989).
> 
> Thank you to OP for enabling. I really can't seem to stay away from the underage dubcon porn orz. I hope it's fappable.
> 
> Kudos to Treasuredleisure for the beta! And happy birthday to E.Coli whose kinks I was especially mindful of when I wrote this hehe.

God bless the day Brian decided to have his way with the blonde bitch that is my sister, for the product is the perfect specimen for debauchery. Lithe, nubile, hair curling at his nape and over his brow: he was Charlie in the morning, rubbing his eyes, his pajama top loose enough to expose a freckled shoulder. Chuck at the playground, trying to hang out with the “cool kids”. Chad in school, glasses perched over the twinkle of his eyes. Charles in my arms, always Charles, a purr giving way to a quiet hiss as he lets me touch the tender flesh of his sex.

They were off to rekindle their tepid relationship, my sister and her husband, leaving me with my pretty nephew. I lived alone, as content as any confirmed bachelor could be in a penthouse suite overlooking the local park. My job was of the detestable 9-to-5 variety that supported me and my whims comfortably.

I had women. I had men. I had freedom. But up until Charles had shown up at my door I hadn’t known how lacking I had been as a man. I’m struck in the loins with Eros’ dart, reasonably startled by it, for the last time I saw this little devil he had been nine with droopy socks and a lush bottom in need of a spanking.

For the first few days, I had managed to keep my hands to myself, struggling as all men do with their scruples and their morals, going over and over again the words of the law which was my practice. I was his legal guardian, and my responsibilities to him were _in loco parentis_. I knew the charges of molestation. I had convicted men for less, and in prison even the criminals condemned the molesters and the rapists, however...

However.

This was Charles, my good, docile boy. This was Charles, who I loved and loved me in return. Who let me bathe him and dress him as I saw fit, and turned to my touch when I placed my hand on his knee on the couch, who did not turn away when it rose higher and higher up his thigh.

I had tried and tested romance, and found only heartbreak and a legal nightmare. You’d think being in the business hardened you to these kinds of things, but I understood the implications and the fine lines better than most. Aristotle had said that “the law is reason free from passion.” I’d lost my passion after the divorce. The only thing I had left was reason, and so I took to my career with gusto. Made partner in two years, bought a bachelor pad, replaced all the holes Magda left in my life with the things I’d missed when I married her: alcohol, casual sex, the ability to leave the dishes at the sink.

With Charles, however, there’s a sweetness to our relationship I still can’t quite grasp. I like the look of him, to begin with. I like looking at him. There’s not a moment when he’s unpretty, whether he’s newly-wakened or fresh from the stresses of school. He’s soft-spoken, which makes me in turn soft-hearted. I’m a bastard in the office, but I leave that persona there. It’s not fitting for the home, not when my Charles is waiting with his feet curled under him, toes wiggling as he writes an essay.

I especially like the smell of him, the warm scent of his skin and the light musk of youth. Sometimes I take his laundry and hold it up to my nose to take it in. Once I’d taken one of his cotton briefs, stiffened with his essence from a night of wet dreams and breathed it in, and wondered if he’d smell just as delicious after a night of wanton buggery. Better, probably, because I’d be able to taste the salt of his skin as well.

He greets me with a hug when I approach, puckering his lips for a kiss. I turn my face at the last second, and he misses the mark on my cheek; instead he pecks my lips, which was my intention anyway. The flush on his face is a furious red, but I say nothing of it. In time neither does he. I seat myself at the couch, and he follows, obedient when I pull him down to pillow his head with my lap. I touch his hair and comb through his curls, and just like that, the tension in my body melts away.

This is simple. This is easy. All my life has been a struggle, but not this.

We dine after that. I give him a popsicle for dessert. Conversation is irrelevant at this point; we’ve discovered that we’re a quiet couple. The frozen treat stains his mouth red as he sucks at it like I’ve taught him to. “To better savor it,” I think I’ve said, delivered with such a straight face he believed me immediately. Now as I watch him fit the girth in his mouth I can’t wait to find out what he’ll look like with his lips around my dick, see him lick my come up with the same gusto he does sucking the juice spilled down his fingers and wrist.

His face is sticky by the time dessert finishes, and I wipe the corner of his lips with my thumb, casually licking the jucie. He watches me with a gaze that is beyond his years, drawing my eyes to his mouth when he licks them again. I want to take him right there in the kitchen and taste the remnants of the sweet on his own tongue, but I turn away and leave him to prepare his bath.

He insists that I not do it, but I like to spoil my boy. And I like to watch him spoil himself, lazily caressing his arms and legs with sweetly-scented bathwater, his hair darker from it. The heat gives him a nice flush, and he looks delectable when he bites his lip and spread his knees. I can’t see him move his hand, but I know the look of a boy when he’s enjoying himself. Hard to know if he’s only rubbing a fist over his prick or testing the give of his hole, but it’s entrancing all the same. My balls ache in my hand, but he finishes the bath before I can do anything about it. The bathroom fills with a tinkling sound, and even the sight of that golden spray keeps me hard. One day I’ll get him to piss in my mouth, teach him how to love the sensation, suck him hard and suck him dry afterwards.

I straighten up from my post at the door and leave for his temporary room, where I will set his clothes for the night and watch him dress: first the pajama pants with his naked rump bent over enticingly, and then the top, covering his pink nipples but loose enough to bare a shoulder. I find the corner of a magazine in his closet, however, and upon further inspection, find that it is a gentleman’s magazine, a bottle-blond with a forgettable face and the flash of underbreast gracing the cover.

Charles walks in just as I am perusing its pages. He looks stricken, and I affect an aura of disappointment. “I can explain,” he says after what may seem an eternity in his awkwardness.

“Please do.”

“I just...have these...urges, sometimes,” He swallows, looking close to tears. “I can’t help myself. I’m sorry, Uncle Erik.”

He sounds so repentant I begin to pity him, and I cannot continue with the charade. “It’s all right, sweetheart. I know you can’t.” I’ve never called him pet names before, but he seems to like it, leaning into my hand when I wipe a damp cheek. “But there’s a better way to channel your frustration, Charles, and it isn’t nice to treat women as objects.”

“What do you mean?”

“Women are people too, and they deserve better than to simply be fodder to your masturbation.” He reddens at my clinical use of the word, and inside I am overcome with glee. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but give me a hug and I’ll teach you to take care of yourself better.”

I seat myself on the bed, so he has no other choice than to straddle my lap and hug me from there. I fit him into the curve of my body, cupping my hand over his rump and dragging him to me. He’s so warm like this, and the weight of him on me is electrifying. I can feel myself stiffen under the simple touch, amplified by the puff of his breaths on my shoulder. He’s wearing only a dressing gown, fresh from the bath as he is, and he smells clean like vanilla and milk. I have to have him now.

“Charles,” I murmur into his hair. “Will you let me show you?”

“Show me what?” He blinks, guileless child, and I let my hand skim his thigh under the robe. I am no stranger to lust, but tonight will be my first time to take a Ganymede. I will be his defilement, but not his rape. No, it could never be rape. Charles loves me. Tonight will be his sexual debut, and my hands will be fragrant with it.

I tug at the cords keeping his robe closed and discard the terrycloth. He shivers in the open air, his eyes wide, and I steady him with my palms on his sides. “You trust me, don’t you?”

“Of course, Uncle Erik.”

“I’ll never hurt you, Charles. You know that, right?” I let a thumb brush against a nipple, flick at it when the response proves effective. I kiss his chest to soothe the hurt, my tongue darting out to taste.

“Ah! Uh-huh...”

I continue my exploration with my mouth, sucking the heat of his skin and leaving pink marks behind. I like that it’s so easy to bruise him. He’s delicate like a peach, my Charles. Once I saw him bang his hip on a side table due to sheer clumsiness, had peeled his jeans down to look and kissed the bruise already blossoming there. I’ve kissed it every night hence and I kiss it now, helping Charles onto his back to give me easier access, his increasing desire plain to see.

There’s a flush running down from his face to his chest, and he flings an arm over his eyes as I trail my hand up his hardened flesh. Uncut, unlike me, so the skin there is soft and velvety when I hold it carefully between my fingertips.

“Oh!” he gasps, surprised. He watches when my hold becomes a loose fist and I gently uncover the head of his prick. I warm it with my palm, wait for him to inevitably move into the touch, and it takes not long, not long at all. Charles licks his lips and looks at my hand, his hips beginning to stutter into a rhythm. I murmur my encouragement, move my hand in time with his thrusts, and before long he’s closing his eyes, face contorted in pleasure. I squeeze, and his body goes rigid under me.

I make myself comfortable beside him, letting my eyes hover over the gleam of the sweat on his skin. His stomach is wet with his pleasure, prick still dripping with it. I let my fingers trace circles on his sternum, wait until his breathing steadies before pulling him into a soft kiss. I open his mouth with my tongue, and he pulls away, surprised.

“What was—”

I grip his chin and kiss him again. He struggles for a bit, but eventually he relaxes into the sweep of my tongue over his, exploring the cavern of his mouth. He grows lax in my arms. I gather him to me, all these nights of staring at the wall separating our rooms finally finding release. I let him touch me, flatten the palm of his hand against the bulge of my trousers, unzip them to expose myself to his virgin touch. He’s eager but slightly clumsy with it. I direct our hands, and it is intimate, with our heads bent together and our breaths mingling, working together to pull my pleasure from me.

A groan punches out of my lungs when I come, painting Charles’ stomach and the bedsheets with it. He’s breathing quickly, inspecting the come webbing between his fingers. For a brief time he’s held hypnotized by the vision, until I settle back down on the pillow and murmur that he can lick it.

He does it, in a moment I’ll forever remember with utter incredulity. He licks his hand like a curious kitten, rolling the taste in his mouth like it’s something to be studied. There’s a light in his eyes that goes up when he does go for a second lick, and another, and another, until I don’t need to tell him to keep at it until his hand is clean. Watching him take pleasure from mine is arousing, and I want to clean him the way he’s enthusiastically doing.

I reach down, settle myself between his legs and suck a cherry dot on his thigh. His prick is rising up again from sparse curls, so I take care to unsheath him and lap at the cockhead, letting my tongue swirl circles around it. In Morse Code, I tap at his slit, E-R-I-K, and the result is so devastating, he starts to arch and shudder under me.

I place my hand under the small of his back and keep him like that, his thigh over my shoulder so he can't kick me away, gentling my ministrations until I’m sliding my mouth over the shaft. I set a slow rhythm, tease his slit with my tongue, and then slide over it as I take more of him. The tip of him reaches my throat, so the next time I go down, I do it all the way until I’m swallowing around him, my throat muscles fluttering around the intrusion. I hold him there for as long as I can before releasing him with a wet sound. He’s shaking, so destroyed by pleasure he’s sobbing from it. “Do you want me to stop?” I ask, my voice rough and deep.

“No,” he’s been gasping, “no, no, no...”

I lick his tears away and smell the scent of his hair, correct in my previous assumption that he’d taste just as heavenly as he’d smell. I go back and suckle at him again, urging him onto orgasm, overwhelmed by desire, shattered by the mingling of pain-pleasure and yet helpless to resist it. He’s deep enough that when he comes that there’s nothing left for me to taste when I withdraw. The back of my throat feels thick and swollen.

Charles is the very picture of debauched innocence when I lay back beside him, half-asleep and twitching with the aftershocks of his pleasure. I wipe at his stomach with tissues from the bedside table, and tend to him with all the affection of a lover I had once thought lost to me. The bedsheets are drawn back, and I tuck him by my side, kiss the fluffy curls at his forehead and bid him to sleep with my arm protective over him.

“Good night, Charles,” I whisper, but when I look, he is already asleep.

**Author's Note:**

>  _in loco parentis_ = Latin for "in place of the parents" refers to the legal responsibility to take on some of the functions and duties of a parent


End file.
